THE SAGA OF THE PINK DUCK, by guest author John Heinen

My roommate, Ed, sublet a cocktail lounge located in a Chinese restaurant on Fulton near Marconi. It had been his regular hangout for years. He made an offer to the owners, and they accepted it. To distinguish it from the restaurant, he wanted a name for the lounge. We brainstormed one evening over drinks in our apartment. After trying and rejecting dozens of names (e.g., fulton's funhouse, the lewd lion, harry's hideaway), I jokingly said, "How about The Pink Duck?" We laughed, yet it appealed to us. And the more we drank, the more it appealed. It was amusing and unique. Ed got one of those vinyl 4'x12' instant signs and we installed it. He bought some nice couches and chairs, had music on the weekends, and we both handed out dozens of one-free-drink cards to everyone we ran into. Lots of young people started coming in, and Ed was a happy bar owner. He invented the Pink Duck cocktail: vodka, lemonade, and a splash of Grenadine for the pink. It was a great little bar. But then his long time friends, who were the mainstay of the weekday business -- older fellows (fellows? I meant 'fogeys') -- began complaining about the name. They felt it suggested that this was a gay bar. (Fogeys?  I meant 'homophobic fogeys'). Against my advice, Ed caved in and renamed the bar "Uptown Ed's". The young people stopped showing up, the homophobic fogeys -- (homophobic fogeys?  I meant 'old farts') -- didn't supply sufficient revenue, and in under six months Ed was out of business. A few years later that bar and and the restaurant burned to the ground, the ultimate end to the saga of The Pink Duck.